


Unraveling

by EASchechter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-31 12:17:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1031623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EASchechter/pseuds/EASchechter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loose ends have a tendency to come unraveled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TinyMonsters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyMonsters/gifts).



 "Goodbye, John."

Sherlock lowered the mobile and tossed it away. He took a deep breath. The timing was so essential...

"That won't stop my snipers."

Sherlock jerked back from the edge, turning to see Moriarty rising from the pool of blood, laughing.

"It's a grand gesture, But it won't stop them. All of your friends are still going to die."

"You're dead," Sherlock said, and felt absurd. Of course he was dead! He's just blown the back of his own head off! "That wasn't a trick. You're _dead_!"

"Oh, obviously," Moriarty agreed. Then he grinned, and Sherlock could see that his front teeth were jagged, shattered by the recoil of the blast. "Did you honestly think that was going to stop me?"

He stepped forward, staggering the way that the fake monsters had moved in that horrible movie John had insisted Sherlock watch with him last fall. Blood splattered to the ground behind him as he came forward, leaving a trail to... what? Sherlock's mind went blank -- this was not something he was equipped to deal with.

"Impossible," Sherlock snapped. "You're impossible!"

Moriarty laughed again. "Denying what's in front of your eyes? How very ordinary, Sherlock. Now, you were going to jump? I doubt it. I imagine you had some sort of grand plan?"

The plan! Sherlock looked over the edge and winced. Too late now. And John... Sherlock could see him, still standing in place, staring at the rooftop.

"I'll tell you a secret, Sherlock," Moriarty continued. He giggled. "Even if you did it, even if you'd jumped, they were still going to die."

A gunshot rang out, almost as if it was punctuating Moriarty's sentence. Sherlock froze, then turned, seeing the crumpled figure on the ground. The growing darkness on the street. The people gathering...

"John..." The word escaped his lips, a harsh whisper drowned out by a second shot. Then a third, somewhat further away. Then, at some great distance, a fourth.

"Ah." Moriarty nodded. "Let's see. The landlady. The detective inspector. And the brother." He smiled, insolent even in death. "Honestly, Sherlock, do I look like someone who leaves loose ends lying about?"

Sherlock stepped back from the edge. Impossible. There was no way he should have been able to hear a shot from Baker Street. Nor from the Met. Impossible! Another step, and he bumped into something solid. Something that grabbed the back of his coat and would not let go, pushing him forward, toward the edge of the roof. He pushed back, tried to break free, twisting to try and break the hold.

"None of that," Moriarty chided. "Now then. I've kept you long enough. Let me see you out."

Preternatural strength lifted him, struggling, into the air. Sherlock had a split second to see the bloody, ragged smile before he was falling....

He jerked awake and sat upright in bed. That damned dream again! Sherlock dragged his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair (too short, chemically straightened, wrong color) and lurched out of the narrow bed. He walked naked across the room and picked up a crumpled packet of cigarettes, lighting one and taking a long draw before sitting at the desk and opening up the laptop computer. The screen brightened, and a small light indicated the webcam was on. A moment later, someone moved into view.

"Well, Brother," Mycroft said. "To what do I owe the call?"

Sherlock ignored the pleasantries. "Tell me you have something new for me. The last three leads you sent were false."

Mycroft frowned. "Are you certain? I have it on the best authority--"

"False."

"I see. Then..." Mycroft looked off to the side. Sherlock looked in the mirror behind him, saw only Mycroft's home-office. Good. "Then I think that perhaps it is time for you to come home."

"Home?" Sherlock repeated. "How can I come back, when I haven't gotten them all yet?"

"You have. All but four. There were four loose ends." Sherlock winced at his brother's choice of words. "If three have turned cold, then we can presume that they've joined the fourth. And I think we can assume that they know you're not dead."

Sherlock took another long pull on his cigarette. "Is it possible for you to confirm that?" he asked. "Because there have been no attempts on my life in over a year."

"I will do my best to confirm that. But I think it may be for the best for you to come back. I think the final steps of this dance will be in London." Mycroft's expression softened. No one but Sherlock would have seen it. "Brother, I worry about you."

Sherlock sniffed. "So you've said. Constantly."

"No, Sherlock. Truly, I am worried about you!" Mycroft insisted. "You look... exhausted."

For a moment, Sherlock considered telling Mycroft about the dreams. About the fact that he hadn't slept more than a few hours at a time in months, could barely bring himself to eat. Usually, that didn't bother him, but cases had never run more than a week or two. He'd been hunting Moriarty's network for two years. The transport was starting to break down from sleep deprivation and malnutrition.

No. If he told Mycroft, he'd find himself picked up and bundled off to some safe house, and his work would go unfinished. He couldn't do that. Especially if Mycroft was right.

He had to finish this. Then he could rest.

"I'm fine, Mycroft. And you're right. This will finish in London. If they know I'm alive, they'll move against John." Sherlock tamped his cigarette out in the cheap metal ashtray and leaned back. He looked at the pack of cigarettes and decided against it.

"We're watching him closely, as you requested."

"And Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade?"

Mycroft nodded. "Yes. And I am taking care as well." He frowned. "Four loose ends."

"Four of you," Sherlock said. "Yes, Mycroft. You are right. Bring me home."


	2. Chapter 2

 Twenty-seven hours, and two more nightmares later, Sherlock stood in Mycroft's office, looking out the window at the dawn. It was a rare luxury, only allowed by the fact that all of Mycroft's windows were bulletproof. He closed his eyes and let the sound of Mycroft's voice wash over him as he spoke quietly on the telephone behind him, to some Minister or other on the other side of the world. Sherlock didn't know who, and didn't care to know. It was almost comforting, reminding him of childhood. Of Mycroft reading to him at night. Almost done. Almost...

_Honestly, Sherlock, do I look like someone who leaves loose ends lying about?_

"Honestly, Sherlock--"

A hand closed over his shoulder, and Sherlock reacted without thinking, lashing out. He felt as his elbow connected, heard a familiar voice grunt, and turned to see Mycroft on his back on the floor, staring at him.

"Sherlock!"

"Mycroft! I... I'm sorry," Sherlock stammered. He held his hand out and helped Mycroft to his feet. "I apologize--"

"You were asleep!" Mycroft interrupted. "You were asleep, on your feet. Brother, you've never done that. You... when did you last sleep?"

Sherlock licked his lips and turned away. "Where are they, Mycroft?"

"Sherlock--"

"I need to finish this. Then I can rest."

"I did not ask you when you last rested, Brother. I asked you when you last slept. And allow me to be specific -- slept for a full night. And if you don't answer me, then you won't be the one to finish this."

Sherlock turned back, looked at Mycroft, then nodded. "When did I last sleep a full night? I no longer remember." He swallowed and forced himself to continue. "I _dream_ , Mycroft."

"Dream?" Mycroft immediately looked worried. "Sherlock, you've told me before that you do not dream."

"I know. I know, and I don't... until now." Sherlock leaned against the wall and shook his head. "The last few minutes on the roof at Saint Bart's. Before I jumped. Only... it's impossible, Mycroft."

"Dreams occasionally are. Tell me." Mycroft took Sherlock's hand and led him to the large, leather couch.

"I'm not a child, Mycroft!"

"No, you aren't," Mycroft agreed. "But you are my little brother, and I promised Mummy that I would take care of you. I have never asked this before, but please, let me take care of you? Just this once?"

Sherlock took a long breath, let it out slowly. Even when he'd been using, Mycroft had never asked. He'd simply waited. Watched from the sidelines. He'd known that Sherlock would have refused any offer of help, and had moved in and done so only when Sherlock had asked for it. For him to even offer...

"Am I that bad?" Sherlock asked, smiling wryly. The expected answering smirk never came.

"Brother, I've progressed from worried about you to frightened for your safety. If I allow you to leave, I no longer expect you to come back." Mycroft hesitated, then softly added, "And I would miss you, if you were gone."

Sherlock swallowed. Nodded. Took a deep breath. "On the roof. I was about to jump. And... he _spoke_ to me!" Slowly, Sherlock recounted the dream that he'd had so many times. Mycroft let him speak, not interrupting, not moving at all. When Sherlock finished, Mycroft rose and went to the corner of the office, and the tea service there. He came back with two cups, handing one to Sherlock.

"You've told no one of this, I presume?" he asked as he sat back down.

"Who would I tell, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked in response. "I've spoken only to you for nearly two years."

"Quite right. And... now that you've spoken the words, what do you think of them?"

Sherlock's lips twitched. " _Once they are counted and compelled_ _,_ _they can quickly be dispelled_ _._ _Like figments of my own imagination._ "

Mycroft laughed. "You still remember that? Yes. Now that you've counted and compelled your fears, dispel them. Tell me your thoughts."

"That I won't be able to stop him," Sherlock answered. "That in death, he'll still have defeated me, both because I cannot prove he existed, and because he'll have taken from me the people I value the most. That he was planning to kill them even if I did die."

Mycroft nodded slowly. "We've watched the others most carefully over the past two years. There have been no attempts, nothing untoward at all. As I told you, Doctor Watson took your death very hard. He refuses to see me at all." Sherlock sipped his tea, and almost spat it out when Mycroft continued. "Mrs. Hudson tells me that he is engaged to be married."

"He's what?"

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. "A nurse, from what I understand. Someone he met at the clinic. A Miss Morstan. Mary, if I remember her Christian name. I investigated her background when she and the good doctor started becoming... friendly. She seems to be a lovely young woman."

"I... I see." To come back to London, back to 221B, and not have John there? Unthinkable!

"I believe that they have taken the basement apartment at 221 Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson tells me that Doctor Watson was worried for her, that she might not be able to make ends meet while not having a tenant." Mycroft fell silent, but Sherlock knew what he was thinking -- John hadn't wanted to leave, but hadn't been able to bring himself to stay, either. At least, not at 221B.

"And Lestrade?"

"I see the Detective Inspector every week, for tea," Mycroft answered.

Sherlock snorted. "And when should I expect the happy announcement?" he asked. No answer. Just a long silence from Mycroft, and a slight, creeping line of crimson up from his collar. "Mycroft!"

"I assure you, it was not intentional!" Mycroft protested as the flush reached his ears. "I'm not sure exactly... and I cannot think Mummy would approve--"

"Does it matter what Mummy would think?" Sherlock interrupted. "She's long dead. And if she disapproved of Greg Lestrade... well, Mummy was, I think, more intelligent than that. He's a good man. One of the best I've ever known." Sherlock smiled slightly. "I wish you joy, Mycroft."

Mycroft looked startled, but recovered quickly. "Thank you." He patted Sherlock's arm. "We will do our best to make sure that your fears are dispelled. Now. Lie down."

"We have work to do--"

"And if you're not at your best, then you cannot give them, give us your best. Lie down, brother. I assure you, this couch is quite comfortable. I've slept here many times."

Sherlock felt a wave of irrational panic. If he slept, he'd dream...

"You're safe here. And I will make sure they're safe for the next four hours." Mycroft took Sherlock's teacup and rose, setting the cups down on his desk, then opening a cabinet and taking out a blanket. "Sleep, brother."

"I can't."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow and waited, and Sherlock sighed, kicking his shoes off and laying down on the couch. Mycroft covered him with the blanket, then sat down on the edge of the couch, and started reciting in a soft voice:

_Late._

_Late at night._

_When the world sleeps._

_And I am here alone._

_And here I come some nights to confront my fears._

_They're here...my fears._

_They are always with me._

_Lurking, scurrying, hiding, and waiting._

_They come!_

_And they go._

_Though they are gone they are never far_

_and here alone at night I can confront them._

_There they are...confronted fears!_

_Fears of hunger, fears of pain, fears of missing the last train._

_Fears of dentists always drilling, fears that no one will be willing..._

_to see me as I know I really am._

_Once they are counted and compelled...they can quickly be dispelled..._

_Like figments of my own imagination._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem is "Fears of Zero," by Jerry Juhl, and was featured on The Muppet Show in 1977 (as part of Season Two).
> 
> The text can be read here: http://anightintheforest.blogspot.com/2011/11/fears-of-zero.html
> 
> And you can watch the video here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qxb1P9-8pT0
> 
> And yes, I know the dates don't quite add up right (Sherlock would have been too young for the initial showing, too old for the reruns in the 80s.)


	3. Chapter 3

 For once, Sherlock slept without dreaming. He woke abruptly, though, when an unexpected voice penetrated his subconscious. He opened his eyes, blinking rapidly up at the two men standing next to the couch.

"Good Lord," Lestrade murmured. "You know, I should be used to you lot doing the impossible. But this..." He looked at Mycroft. "If you hadn't warned me, I'd have dropped dead right here."

"An unfortunate choice of words, perhaps?" Mycroft offered. Greg looked at him, then snorted and grinned.

"Yeah, probably. So, when are you going to tell me how you did it?"

"Once we have the time," Sherlock said, kicking off the blanket and sitting up. He hunched over and dragged his fingers through his hair. He felt better, but knew that he hadn't slept nearly long enough. "Mycroft, how long?"

"How long were you asleep? Long enough that I thought it best to bring in an ally," Mycroft answered. "And... to bring those that I could in to a more secure environment."

Sherlock sat up straight. "What's happened?"

"Oh, nothing is wrong," Mycroft assured him hastily. "But you were correct in the deduction that our three loose ends have joined the fourth. Two have been sighted. One near New Scotland Yard, and one near Regents Park."

"You said that John won't see you. So where is Mrs. Hudson?"

"Having tea with Anthea," Greg answered. "Mycroft told me first, and I thought... well, I wasn't sure how she'd take the shock."

Sherlock sniffed. "She's stronger than you give her credit for being."

"Oh, I know she is!" Greg said firmly. "I was worried that she might turn around and kill you all over again."

Sherlock snorted. "You might have a point," he said, and leaned down to put his shoes back on. "Who is going to tell her?"

"Anthea should be telling her now," Mycroft answered. "So I expected that she'll be coming in momentarily. Then you get to explain to both of us just what the fuck you were thinking."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at Mycroft. "You didn't?"

"He started to," Greg answered. "But I know you well enough to know that it wasn't his idea. It was your stupid cocked-up plan, and you get to tell us why you did that to all of us!"

Sherlock heard the exasperation in Greg's voice. He nodded slowly. "Do you want me to explain now, or wait for Mrs. Hudson?"

The office door opened. Sherlock got to his feet and turned to see Mrs. Hudson come storming into the office. She stopped when she saw Sherlock, her jaw dropping. For a moment, she looked as if she was foundering for something to say. Finally, she managed three words:

"Your poor hair!"

Greg burst out laughing, and Sherlock stared at her for a moment, then sputtered, "My _hair_? That's what you say? My poor hair?"

Mrs. Hudson drew herself up to her full one-point-five-seven meters and folded her arms over her chest. "And what else am I supposed to say? That you're a selfish, spoiled brat of a boy who ran off and left us all to mourn you? Do you have any idea what we went through? What poor John went through?"

"Selfish," Sherlock said softly. He hadn't considered that they might blame him, might not understand once they knew his reasons. "Is that what you think?"

"She doesn't know, Sherlock," Mycroft said.

"I know. It just... " Sherlock shrugged. "No matter. It never mattered to me, what others thought."

"Yeah, pull the other one," Greg muttered. "Mrs. Hudson, let's hear what he has to say, yeah?"

"I can't see how it would matter--"

"There were snipers," Sherlock said quickly, interrupting her. "Four of them. One for each of you, and one for John. If I didn't jump, they would have killed you all." He turned away. "I thought... there was a chance I could get him to stop them. Moriarty. He had a codeword, a phrase that would recall them. But when I pointed out that he'd left me that option, he killed himself. So I wouldn't have the code. So I couldn't redeem myself. And so I couldn't save your lives." He moved over to the window, looking out into the street. "I jumped, because it was the only way to be sure that you would live. If everything had gone the way it should have... well, it wouldn't have taken two years."

"It's not over, is it?" Greg asked. "Or else you'd have gone home. We wouldn't be doing all this cloak and dagger routine."

"No, it isn't over. There are still four... and they know I'm alive." Sherlock turned to see the look of horror on Mrs. Hudson's face.

"John," she whispered. "John and Mary."

"The clinic is under surveillance," Mycroft said. He looked down, picked up a tablet from his desk. "And targets one and two are eliminated."

"Which ones are those?" Sherlock asked. "The German? And the Brazilian?"

"Yes. The Welshman is still... no, the Welshman is down."

Sherlock sighed. "One left, then. The American."

"American?" Greg echoed. "What does an American have to do with anything?"

Mycroft touched something on his desk, and a picture on the wall faded away, became a computer screen. A picture appeared, of a dark-haired man in his late 30s, with a short, military haircut. "This is the last known image of one Colonel Sebastian Moran. United States Marine Corps Forces Special Operations Command, where he served as a sniper. He was dishonorably discharged in 2010, for drug trafficking. He is, as best we are able to determine, James Moriarty's second in command."

"And this man is trying to kill one of us?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"That is correct," Mycroft answered.

Mrs. Hudson sniffed. "And you're supposed to be so good at your job. Really, Mycroft, he's had plenty of chances."

"I'm sorry?" Mycroft said slowly.

"I've seen him... oh, I'm not even sure any more. Twice a week? He's a friend of John's. From his army days, they told me."


	4. Chapter 4

 Sherlock's jaw dropped. Then he wheeled on Mycroft. "You've been watching him, you said!" he snapped. Then came clarity, and a thrill of horror. "You... you allowed this to happen. You let the assassin get close. You didn't expect it to come to this, though. You never expected to have to admit that you put their lives -- all of their lives at risk!"

"The best place to watch him was out in the open. If he had attempted anything--"

"You never would have been able to stop him," Sherlock finished. "Where is he now?" Mycroft remained silent, and Sherlock growled, "Where?"

"Given the time?" Mrs. Hudson answered. "Probably on his way to dinner with John and Mary." She sniffed and glared at Mycroft. "Were you also going to keep it from him that John has asked Sebastian to be his best man?"

Sherlock let the news settle, then closed his eyes. He groaned and let out a long breath. "The ultimate betrayal, and the ultimate revenge. Get close to John. Take my place. Then kill him..." His eyes opened. "Kill him in front of me. Mycroft, how much of this did you know?"

"I knew none of it," Mycroft answered quickly. Too quickly.

Greg beat him to the next question, though. "How much did you suspect, then?"

Mycroft looked at him, and that was enough for Sherlock. "All of it. He suspected all of it. And... oh, is that why I'm back now, Mycroft? Why you told me you wanted me to come home?"

"No!" Mycroft gasped. "Of course not! I wanted you home because I was worried about you. You didn't look well."

"You don't look well, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said gently. She sniffed and waved her finger at him. "As soon as this is over, straight to bed with you!"

Despite himself, Sherlock grinned. He gave into impulse, reached out, and pulled Mrs. Hudson into an embrace. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "They would have killed you. It was the only way to stop them. I only wanted you to be safe."

Mrs. Hudson sighed, patting his back. "I understand, Sherlock. You meant well."

"It was completely bone-headed, but you meant well," Greg added. "So now what do we do?"

Sherlock looked at him. "Save John. And.... what's her name again?"

"Mary," Mrs. Hudson answered. "You'll like her, Sherlock."

Privately, Sherlock doubted that he'd have the chance to find out if he'd like Mary. Or even tolerate her. John wouldn't forgive him, and would probably never want to talk to him again, so Sherlock knew that he needn't worry about if he and John's future wife got along. He let Mrs. Hudson go, then frowned.

"You said that Moran was meeting John and Mary for dinner. Where?"

Mrs. Hudson looked startled, then turned to Lestrade. "I... I don't know. Mary didn't say."

Sherlock looked at Mycroft, who nodded and went back to his desk. "They've just left the clinic," he said. He paused, then nodded. "Dinner reservations for an hour from now, at Ishtar."

Sherlock nodded, turning away. How to do this? How to make sure that Moran was stopped, and that John was unhurt?

"Can we stop Moran before he reaches them?" he asked over his shoulder. "Where is he?"

Mycroft was silent for a moment, then Sherlock heard a click. "Anthea, the target?"

Her voice came out of a speaker: "Location uncertain. Attempting to reestablish contact."

"You lost him?" Greg demanded. "He has to know you're on to him. If the other three are out of the game, then he's warned. He knows!"

"He already knew," Sherlock said softly. "He already knew, because he called the others in. He knew that would bring me back. He wants me here to see this." He stopped, walked over to the window and looked down into the street. "Mycroft!"

Mycroft joined him at the window, to see the dark-haired man in the street below. He smiled, saluted, then turned and walked away.

Sherlock turned from the window. "Greg, call John. We need to bring him -- them -- someplace safe. If Moran is here, there's no one watching the clinic."

"Any ideas where I should take them?" Lestrade asked, pulling out his mobile. "And how?"

"The flat across the way from 221," Mrs. Hudson offered. "There are no tenants there."

"I am aware," Mycroft said drily. "That is one of the points of surveillance--"

"Not a point in your favor, mate," Greg said. "All right. Bring him there. Then?"

Sherlock turned to Mycroft. "You can keep Moran distracted?"

"We can," Mycroft answered. "I presume you'll be going to the flat?"

Sherlock didn't answer. There was no need. He found himself unwontedly nervous. How would John react?

#

"Sherlock, do stop pacing!" Mrs. Hudson chided gently. "You'll exhaust yourself!"

Sherlock snorted. He was already exhausted. He'd fallen asleep in the car on the way here, and the dream had started again. Only this time, he could clearly see that Moran had been the man who shot John in the street. He awakened in a cold sweat to see Mrs. Hudson staring at him.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm fine." He forced a smile.

"No, you're not." She reached out and took his hand. "It's almost over, Sherlock. Then you can come home. It will all be like it was." She smiled and pressed one finger to his lips before he could say anything. "Don't you contradict me! John will forgive you. He'll understand."

They hadn't spoken again. One of Mycroft's people had escorted then through the alley and into the empty flat, up to the first floor. From where he stood, Sherlock could look out the window and see into 221B.

"Mycroft had me keep the place up. Everything is right where you left it," Mrs. Hudson said, coming over to stand with him. "And... I'm not entirely certain, but I think John might suspect something." When Sherlock looked at her, she shrugged. "I think that perhaps your brother isn't as clever as he thinks."

"No one could be that clever," Sherlock said.

"You are."

There was such confidence in her voice, in her manner, that Sherlock smiled. She hugged him, then turned. "I heard something."

"They're here," Sherlock said. He waved Mrs. Hudson through a door and followed her. Now he could hear Lestrade's voice clearly.

"Wasn't sure how you'd feel about having me across the way," he was saying.

"Greg, do we have to do this now?" John sounded annoyed. "We have dinner reservations."

"It won't take a minute. I'd really appreciate your opinion." The door opened, and Lestrade walked in. Following him was John, and a woman that Sherlock knew had to be Mary. Petite. Blonde. Not conventionally pretty, but with a fine intelligence in her eyes.

John looked around, nodded. "Nice place. But you didn't say why you were moving. Your flat is nice enough, and closer to the Met. So... why don't you tell me what this is really about?"

Lestrade grinned. "You've rubbed off on him."

John blinked, looked startled, then turned unerringly toward the door. Sherlock stepped out, looked at John, then laughed. "You've known! For how long?"

"Yeah, I knew. Took me a while, but I pieced it together. And... maybe about a year? Mary?"

"You told me your theory just after my birthday. So not quite a year," she answered. She smiled at Sherlock. "It's nice to finally meet you. I feel like I know you already, from everything John's told me."

Sherlock nodded to her, but his attention was on John. "How much do you know?"

"Everything but why." John folded his arms over his chest. "So tell me why."

"Then you'll tell me how you figured it out?"

"Assuming I don't kill you myself? I mean, you're already dead. It's not like it would be a crime."

Sherlock smiled slightly, then nodded. "Snipers, John."

John frowned. "What? He had snipers?"

"One each for you, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft."

John licked his lips and looked away. Then he looked back. "You jump, or we die?"

"You understand," Sherlock said, feeling a wave of relief. "How... how did you know?"

"Two things," John answered. "First, you told me you were a liar. That you were a fake. I never believed that for a second. I've seen you work. And you let me close, so I saw how much you cared. I knew you didn't set any of that up. And you never would have let that woman die. The one with the bomb. Once I could think again, I knew you were lying. You were lying to me. I just wasn't sure why. But I was absolutely certain to my bones that you would never commit suicide. Not _you_."

Sherlock nodded, refrained from asking why John was so certain. "And the other thing?"

"Sigerson."

Sherlock stared, feeling suddenly lost. Was this how it was for ordinary people? "Sigerson? How... how did you know that name?"

John smiled slowly. "That thing in Kuala Lampur. And what the bloody hell were you doing in Malaysia, anyway?"

"Moriarty had a drug syndicate there. How did you know it was me?"

John's grin was practically insolent. "You were showing off, and you got too close to a reporter. She quoted you in the article, and it showed up in the Times. Next time you're in disguise, mate, make sure you don't open your mouth."

Sherlock stared for a minute, then laughed out loud. It felt good. "You... that was amazing."

"Yeah, I'm pretty proud of it. So... why here? Why now?" He looked at Lestrade. "This... has something to do with Sebastian, doesn't it?" His eyes widened. "Sniper. Oh, fuck--"

"You always were a smart boy, John," an unfamiliar voice said. Sherlock turned to see the dark-haired man standing unnoticed in the doorway. He stepped inside and closed the door, his gun aimed unerringly at John. "This time, though, you weren't very quick, were you?"


	5. Chapter 5

 Sherlock took a step forward, stopped with Mrs. Hudson's hand on his arm. Moran looked at him and smiled. "Well now, Mister Holmes. Nice of you to come back from the dead. For a little while, anyway."

"You can kill me," Sherlock said. "Let them go."

"Nope. I have my orders." Moran looked around. "Three out of the four. Not bad. I'm sure he'd appreciate it. I can always get the last one at the funeral."

"I saved your life," John said slowly. He had, Sherlock saw, put Mary behind him. She had her hand on his waist, under his coat.

"You did. And I'm grateful. But Jim, he gave me a life after the Marines kicked me out." He glanced at Sherlock. "You have no idea, do you? Jim said you were an iceberg. So did Irene."

"You were his lover," Sherlock said.

"Well, look at that!" Moran laughed. "Did someone manage to kick your feet out from under you in the past couple years? Yeah, he was mine. And you took him from me. So now I get to take them from you."

"He killed himself," Sherlock said. "I wouldn't have killed him. He was... unique. I'd no more have killed him than I'd have smashed my Strad."

"Funny. He said the same thing about you," Moran said. "He didn't want you dead. He wanted you with him. Wanted to have someone who could keep up with him. Someone like him." He shrugged. "'Course, I might have killed you before too long, if it came down to it."

"Jealous?" Sherlock jibed. "Afraid he might have preferred me to your simple mind?"

Moran snorted. "Please. You wouldn't have the first idea how to handle him. And it doesn't matter now. He's dead, and it's your fault." He looked around and smiled. "Lets see... on your knees. All of you."

Sherlock looked around, saw John nod as he knelt, Mary beside him. He turned to help Mrs. Hudson, who snapped. "Honestly, Sebastian! Do you expect me to get on the ground?"

"Sorry, Mrs. H," Moran answered, sounding truly remorseful. "You're the one I regret. Look... you go in the other room. Close the door. That'll be fine. And I'll make it quick."

"That hardly helps," Mrs. Hudson said. She touched Sherlock's arm and backed into the other room, closing the door. Sherlock slowly went to his knees.

"Now what?" he asked.

Moran shook his head, racked the slide, and leveled the gun at John. "Now you get to watch them die."

"Just a minute, Sebastian," John said. "Last words?"

"Oh, go on."

John smiled and nodded. He glanced over his shoulder at Sherlock. "Vatican cameos."

Sudden chaos. There was no cover, so Sherlock threw himself to the side and hoped for the best. He head Lestrade curse, then the roar of a gun muted all other sounds. He felt more than heard as a body hit the floor, and looked up to see Moran's empty eyes staring at nothing. Beyond the body, kneeling up, and with John's gun in her hands, was Mary.

She sniffed, lowered the gun, and turned to John, who lay sprawled on the floor a few feet from her. "I never did like him, John," she announced.

#

It was odd, to be back in 221B. Everything was indeed right where he'd left it. He'd have expected things to have moved, to have been packed away. Having everything just so... was jarring. He walked around the sitting room, touching things. Picking up his violin and putting it down.

Mycroft had been and gone. Lestrade was gone, too. The body had been taken away, and there would be no inquiry. Mycroft had seen to that. John and Mary were in the basement. Mrs. Hudson was down in her flat, and Sherlock was left alone, with everything just the way he'd left it.

Only nothing was just the way he'd left it.

There was a light knock on the door. Tentative. It opened, and Mary peered inside. "May I come in?"

"You're already part way in."

She grinned and came the rest of the way inside. "I don't want to be a bother. So you can tell me to go if I am. I won't mind. John says you can be brusque."

"And you had worse in the military. I see that."

Her grin became positively gamine. "You're amazing! John told me what you could do, and I read his blog, but... that's just extraordinary." She cocked her head to one side. "Is it hard to learn?"

Sherlock looked at her. "You want to learn to see?"

"If it's possible. Or am I too old? I imagine it helps if you have a younger student. Someone who hasn't unlearned how to see everything?"

Sherlock stared at her for a moment, then waved her into a chair. He sat down on the couch and studied her for a moment. "You're... not what I expected. When they told me John was marrying."

She sat down and brushed back her short hair. "What did you expect? Blonde, buxom and brainless?"

Sherlock barked with laughter. "You've met John's exs?"

"No. But I saw him at the pub, before we started dating. He wasn't interested in much above the neck." She shrugged again. "I don't have much to look at below the neck, and I'm not much to look at above the neck. So I made him look deeper."

"Don't insult yourself, Mary," Sherlock said, his voice firm. "Appearances aren't important."

"So speaks the man who could model for Prada."

Odd. She didn't sound bitter. Her tone very was matter-of-fact. Sherlock knew what he looked like, knew that most people considered him handsome. He didn't care about that, and to his surprise, Mary didn't seem to care either. She smiled again. "I came up here because I wanted to ask a question."

"I don't mind you marrying John," Sherlock said.

"I wasn't asking that question."

Sherlock blinked. "I apologize. What question were you going to ask?"

She rose and came to stand in front of him. "Sherlock Holmes, would you marry us?"

Sherlock frowned. Took the words apart and put them back together again. No, they still didn't make sense. "Marry you? I'm no minister. I suppose I could get certified, or registered, or whatever it is one does--"

"Also not the question I asked," Mary interrupted. "I said, would you marry us?"

"Marry... Mary, polygamy isn't a legal marriage. And I'm not interested--"

"You keep not answering the question I asked!" Mary interrupted again. "Look. I'm not asking you for sex. Neither is John. Although I might admire you. Well, not might. Definitely will be admiring you. You're very pretty. I'm asking you to marry us. In sickness and in health, that whole mess. Just love us, and let us love you. Not physically." She paused. "Unless you wanted to, of course."

Sherlock licked his lips, looked past her to see John standing in the door. "Come in and sit. Then... I'm going to say something I doubt anyone has heard me say since I was a boy. I don't understand."

"You did it, Mare. You stumped him." John came in and sat in his old chair. "Look, Sherlock. This... Mary and I talked about this. What would happen when you came back. I knew you would, at some point. I knew you'd have a good reason for going, and I knew you'd come back. We discussed what would happen, when you did come back. Because I knew I'd have to choose... and she didn't want me to have to do that. So... this was her idea. If you can suffer having two idiots living with you, that is."

"You're neither of you idiots!" Sherlock snapped. "And... I imagine children?"

Mary blushed. "Eventually."

"So, that's the proposal. We live together. All three of us," John said. "As long as we all shall live. We take care of each other, and love each other. And maybe there will be some sex--"

"Maybe?" Mary interjected. John laughed and reached out to catch her hand, pulling her to sit in his lap.

"If you're a very good girl."

"I can be a very good girl," she purred.

"Should I leave?" Sherlock asked. "Or sell tickets?"

"Or make popcorn?" Mary countered. "I'm a terrible exhibitionist, I'll have you know."

"You're not going to be able to beat him, you know," John muttered. "Buckingham Palace in a sheet. Only a sheet."

"A sheet?" Mary laughed. "The Queen had a very good day, then?"

"I'm still not understanding. Why?" Sherlock asked.

"Because we don't want you to leave again," John answered. "And you will. You're two years out of place. You've got no place. Not any more. You left a Sherlock-sized hole in our lives, and it's been filled in. You're at loose ends, and you have no idea what to do with that."

There was a long silence. Loose ends again. Sherlock shuddered and shook his head. "When did you grow so perceptive?" he asked softly.

"When you weren't here to point things out to me," John answered, his voice equally quiet. "I missed you, Sherlock. You're my best friend, and losing you once was enough. So... stay? With us?"

A memory. Grandmere Vernet, knitting lace. Weaving the ends of the thread into webbing so fine that Sherlock never could see properly where it began and where it ended. Graceful. Delicate. Deceptively strong. Loose ends becoming part of the whole. He licked his lips and looked up. "I want a ring."

John blinked. "Sorry?"

"If we're married, we should all have rings. I want a ring."

Mary's delighted laughter rang throughout the room, and she jumped off of John's lap and hugged Sherlock before settling next to him on the couch. John rose and came over to them, holding one hand out. Sherlock stood up, took John's hand, and was unsurprised to find himself being hugged once more.

"Welcome home, Sherlock. Don't do that again."

"I won't." He pulled back and looked around. "If you'll excuse me. I need to get some sleep."

Tonight, he knew, he wouldn't dream.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
